The past few weeks have brought hot, humid weather to the Northeast. Morning after morning, I hustle Karina along our customary walk, swatting away the multitude of flies and mosquitoes that swarm around us all along the way.

The heat and humidity make it hard to focus, and if I were to have a coherent thought, typing while my fogged-over glasses slide down my sweaty nose (and this is after a shower), is nearly impossible. To top things off, my computer went haywire, the cursor skipping around from sentence to sentence, clicking on ads and other links of its own accord.

I was wallowing. A lot.

It started in early June. A piece that I had put my heart and soul into didn’t get published when promised. It may soon see the light of day, but its timely lead is no longer timely and it is deeply personal. As more time passes, the more nervous I feel about people reading it.

As June progressed, and the weather got hotter and hotter, I deflated and drooped a little more each day. Pretty soon I was comparing my publishing success to that of others….always a sure road to nowhere.

To be fair, June has a history of being difficult. It is a month of anniversaries that clearly demarcate the all-too-swift passage of time. Forty-one years since I became motherless, and 30 years since I became a mother. Yes, I have a child who is 30 years old. That particular anniversary, more than the other one, hit me hard this year.

In mid- June I pulled some muscle or other in my thigh. Swimming and walking are fine, but rooting around in the garden isn’t possible, and so, I’m letting it go feral this summer. Like everywhere else, it’s too hot and buggy in there anyway.

As if I weren’t already feeling decrepit enough, my dermatologist implied that my multitude of freckles/moles were solely due to too much sun. Sun? Really? In the Northeast? Haven’t you heard of genetics, Bub? So I wallowed in that for a while… until I noticed a woman at the pool. Deeply tanned, her skin was covered with large dalmatian-like spots.

Sometimes, comparison is helpful.

Then my computer went kablooey, and there were histrionics.

The atmosphere inside our little house got even hotter, and to escape, I started reading a book with an angry woman narrator. I am so into that book right now (The Woman Upstairs by Claire Messud). And I can’t wait to discuss it with the friend who gave it to me — especially the comment my local bookseller made as I was buying it for another friend. He said that he found the opening paragraphs “a little too shrill.”

Female anger is such a bummer, especially for men. My husband can handle it though. As he told me after the histrionics subsided, “… it’s good that it wasn’t directed towards me.”

But today, things are looking up. First off, the temperatures are in the 80’s not the 90’s and I can actually type this post without dripping all over the keyboard.

Then, a couple of days ago, the brilliant D.A. Wolfe reminded me of how lucky I am that my sons are independent, that they still want to share their lives with us, and that both are doing work that they and we can be proud of.

Shameless plug: older son’s band is releasing an album on October 8. Freckles or no freckles I’m still cool enough to rate an advanced copy. I’m listening to it now and the music has enough energy to make even the most lethargic among us want to get up and dance.

And you know what else? My garden is doing just fine without me.

In so many ways, I am a free woman!

We all need work, we all need purpose and I’m glad that those are the things I’ll be obsessing about this summer — rather than who’s publishing where, or who or what is or isn’t to blame for my spotty skin — because the day we stop looking for work and purpose is a day when the wallowing has gone too far.

Last weekend we turned back the clocks. We do this every autumn in the U.S. — excepting Hawaii and parts of Arizona. I always savor the extra hour in the morning, yet as the day progresses, and the light thins, that bonus hour is soon forgotten. During this annual transition, evidence of time’s passage is everywhere.

The heat of late summer is long gone, and the brilliance of early fall is fading fast. The winds from Hurricane Sandy expedited the process. But a few, last gasps of color remain.

Changing the clocks marks the passage of Time.

Those turkey chicks that sashayed through the yard last August are all grown up.

Time.

We buried our 16-year old cat, Boots in September. She was a plump bundle of thick black fur that padded around on dainty white feet. Boots, I should mention, was an excellent mouser, and she proudly announced every kill in a loud, guttural, yowl. When she joined our family, she was tiny enough to fit inside a teacup, and our boys were aged 10 and 13.

Time.

She has been gone less than two months, and yet her grave has already weathered its first major storm.

And more Time.

The race toward winter has begun. This dogwood shrub, for example, has already donned its red winter coat.

With most of the leaves down, we can now see through the woods behind our house into the farmer’s fields and beyond.

We can turn the clocks back, set them ahead, and stop them. But no matter what we do to our timepieces, the future arrives with every minute.

Tomorrow is election day. The future of our country’s 99% hangs in the balance. Will the voters turn back the clock, erasing hard fought gains and reopening old battlefields? Or will they keep up with Time and allow the country to continue moving forward?

There’s a definite chill in the air. Last night I layered two wool blankets on top of the summer one. Before long I’ll have to pull out the down comforter. Outside, the garden is making its yearly journey from the sunny yellows of mid-to-late summer, to the richer, more textural pinks, reds, and purples of my fall bloomers.

As the garden makes its turn into fall, and we pile on the blankets, it’s easy to wax nostalgic about the days when there were four of us rushing out the door each weekday morning. But I’m resisting that temptation.

Instead, I’m focusing on what I will make happen — as opposed to what might happen — next.

It’s been two years since I lost my job, and during that time, I have created a framework on which to build my days. Daily walks with the dog, thrice weekly swims, and Tuesday and Thursday afternoons working at a local store, provide the bones for my week. In between each of those activities I work on my blog and other writing assignments.

The transition from the formal structure and demands of full-time employment and parenthood that I’ve clung to for most of my adult life, to the looser requirements of freelance work and empty-nest living, feels like a chasm that I will continue to cross for some time to come.

I don’t know if I will ever feel I have “landed” again. In fact, it’s possible that I’ve never felt that way. Not really. What I do know is that my current writing assignments, both paid and unpaid, feel more authentic, are more satisfying, and bring me more joy than anything I’ve done in the past. And, much to my surprise, this new work and lifestyle have brought me friends and supporters from some unlikely and even far-flung places.

Although I’m still working on how to turn this more joyful work into a decent income, I am grateful that I no longer have to fake excitement or passion when I don’t feel it. I can say what I mean and mean what I say. The ability to just be myself has been one of the most rewarding aspects of my ongoing transition.

This fall, I’m putting on some new shoes, and adding to my my already existing framework. My new DIY structure will continue to evolve. It may never be fully finished, but it will be strong enough and flexible enough to feed my brain and nourish my psyche. With luck and hard work, it might just sustain me through the ever-changing, always surprising, journey ahead.

In gardening, as in life, it’s easy to get stuck in the weeds. It’s easy to focus on the unwelcome clumps of grass and dandelions, the bugs, and the Hostas behind the garage that aren’t coming back.

We gardeners have to remind ourselves that the garden is there to enjoy. It’s a place to bathe our eyes in beauty; inhale the scent of the ground, the trees, the plants and their flowers; and absorb the steady thrum of nature all around us.

It’s true that sometimes what we have doesn’t live up to our vision, but what in life ever does?

So after spending these past weeks lingering in life’s doldrums, I decided to back away from my desk, pick up my camera, and admire what is growing all around me.

Here is a wide view of our back garden, painstakingly dug out of an established lawn. It took a couple of seasons to remove all the grass, (which continues to fight its way back in). I love it best in spring when it is a sea of blues and greens, punctuated with a smattering of winey red.

Just look at these Bleeding Hearts. Doesn’t their amazing shape and pure color make your own heart go pit-a-pat?

So many shades of ivory.

And here is some Solomon’s Seal getting ready to unfurl its string of pearls. These plants, along with some May Apple came from Marilyn, my neighbor at the Hawthorne Inn. These plants were already 50 years old when she first brought them down from Maine 35 years ago.

Oooh and there’s my Painted Fern! I always keep my fingers crossed that it will return each year.

The longer I’ve gardened, the more I’ve come to value the foliage as much as the flower. The leaves have to be interesting, because they are what you see for most of the growing season.

These Japanese Anemones are one example. They provide texture all summer. Then in the fall, they sprout their deep pink and white flowers. A lovely surprise when everything else in the garden has started to fade.

Lady’s Mantle leaves love to cup rainwater and dew, but they are experiencing an unusually dry spring. These plants came from Kathleen’s garden.

Like the Lady’s Mantle, this Yarrow from my friend Connie will eventually sport flat hats of yellow flowers. But it is already giving off its own musky scent. In fact, that aroma stopped me cold the first spring after I’d planted it, when I took it for a weed and almost pulled it out.

My friend Beverly, gardener extraordinaire, who lives in a little cottage down the street, shared some European Ginger with me a few years ago. It won’t bloom at all, but the sight of those crisp, shiny leaves can really cool you down on a hot day.

It’s so much easier to get stuck in the weeds/doldrums than it is to pull oneself out. But as any gardener knows, growing a garden takes persistance, care, and a bit of faith. You have to plant seeds, water, and pay attention. Eventually roots will form and something wonderful will emerge from the soil.

This sign is a gift from Carol, one of our oldest friends. Whenever I feel as though no one else gets me, she always does.

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A blog about travels near and far, daily life, and issues that are bigger than all of us.